No Choice
by Armygirl0604
Summary: "That part had been deliberately cultivated by MI6 and his uncle-Ian Rider. Using him wasn't enough. First, they had to turn him into someone who WANTED to be used." Smut
1. Chapter 1

**Just an idea I've been bouncing around in my head. All rights to Alex Rider go to Anthony Horowitz.**

**The quote in the summary came from Crocodile Tears.**

_First, they had to turn him into someone that _wanted_ to be used._ He'd thought those same words before, when he was just a fourteen year old boy, doing his eighth government intelligence mission. All had been dangerous, all had been survived only by his devilish luck, and all had been, at the end, if he really admitted it to himself way deep down, done willingly.

But that had been years ago. Not so many years, Alex realized dimly as he prepared himself for the night's job, dressing himself back in a school boy's uniform, despite his age. Only five. Five simple years ago.

At nineteen, he'd grown out of his "special" use to MI6, at least a bit. He had retained his smooth-faced boyish looks, sure, but his build was that of a man. He was well-muscled, a strong jaw, and long legs. He was, at least in small ways, beginning to look like a man. He couldn't be sent on school trips anymore or wormed in as some rich man's rebellious son. The best they could do, as far as school-boy went, was maybe put him into a University situation.

Not that he attended a University. No, when he agreed to go on to MI6's payroll full time, he'd also signed away his chances of being educated alongside his peers. They'd schooled him hard and fast and dropped him into the latest training programs, not all of which could be considered humane or legal.

Alex straightened his tie and pocketed a pack of chewing gum. Real chewing gum, not Smither's special chewing gum. Though Alex did have some of that around somewhere as well. Despite being almost twenty, he found that he quite enjoyed Smither's school-boy gadgets. And if the CIA ended up "borrowing" him, as they intended, he'd be dropped back into a high school situation soon anyway, and the gadgets would be useful. He could pass for seventeen easy, and worm himself in with a bunch of juniors in an American high school, if need be. He could even push sixteen and a sophomore, if they did a good enough job in changing his look. After all, though he had muscles, they were firm and wiry. He could do it, if need be. But really, he'd outgrown his school-boy uses. MI6 had completely different ideas on what would make him worth using.

Without another thought on the matter, Alex locked his apartment door and slipped the key around his neck on a silver chain. All part of his costume, really. The chain itself was made of titanium, according to Smithers, and could cut through just about any simple padlock.

The issue was not so much that they'd found another use for him. After Jack died. He'd hidden from MI6 for a while. That was true enough in itself. Locked himself up in his self-pity and licked his wounds-physical and emotional. But then he'd realized the truth. He was Alex Rider. He was wanted for his uses by MI6. And he'd been trained to be a good spy…he just didn't have a choice in the matter. He couldn't escape. He couldn't fight back. He'd be roped in whether or not he wanted to. So, he realized after a time, he might as well…give in.

And he did. He threw himself head first into the job. He'd made himself the most brilliant spy to ever walk (or sneak across) the face of the earth. By the time he'd turned sixteen, he'd completed no less than eighteen solo intelligence missions; all dangerous, all successful. On top of that, he'd done six partnered missions, five of which were successful to the point of both him and his partners escaping with only minor injuries, such as the usual cuts and scrapes. The third mission, however, Alex's partner, a man named Rieves, had taken a bullet to the shoulder. But he'd been okay, in the end, and eager to get back to work. A true patriot.

Alex scoffed. Every time he heard those words used about himself, he laughed. He was no patriot. Sure, he loved England, but he'd just as willingly work for any intelligence agency in the world, so long as they knew how to work with him, how to pick and prod and pull until his will crumbled. And that in itself was the secret. The great plot behind the way he worked for MI6 time and time again. He didn't just _want it_. Hell, he didn't _want_ it at all. He _needed_ it.

He'd found the tapes, supposedly, by accident. Only it wasn't _really_ an accident, he supposed. After all, Ian would have kept them on purpose. Perhaps he'd known Alex would come across them one day. The tapes had been in a box of Ian's things. Home movies, in fact. But what better place to hide such a thing? They'd all been so neatly labeled, most in Jack's handwriting. _Conelly Wedding, 1993. John's Graduation. Bella Storton's baby girl born, 2001._ And then, below a collection of 20 or so memories, a small plastic box marked in Ian's handwriting. _Alex. Training. RGB._

Alex had lifted the box out slowly. RGB. Royal and General Bank. MI6. Forgetting the other tapes instantly, he picked up the box and carried it to the TV room and opened the box. Inside were 9 tapes, each one numbered with a little silver mark in the corner, written in permanent marker. He'd watched every single one.

They started out innocent enough. The first tape had begun with the camera being aimed at him, sitting on the floor playing with colored blocks. The room was simple enough. There was a round table with a few chairs and a box of pre-school level art supplies on it and a bin of toys on the floor. Other than that, Alex didn't know. The rest of the room was cut off by the camera's angle.

A man in a white coat crouched in front of the younger Alex on screen. Alex studied himself. He couldn't have been more than four years old; because he remembered the maroon and white long-sleeved shirt and overalls he was wearing from pictures he'd seen. The man before him was dressed plainly in a black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes, and white lab coat. His pocket protector was black and he had a silver nametag with the name _Dr. Kerns_ engraved on it. He wore black square-frame glasses and had thinning blond hair. He was the kind of man with the sharp face and soft chin that you could forget in an instant.

"Alex," Dr. Kerns said. "Alex, look at me."

The Alex on screen looked up. He smiled innocently, his chubby toddler hands curled around two blocks, one red and one blue. A yellow and green were stacked haphazardly on top of each other in front of him.

"Alex," Dr. Kerns repeated, his tone very soft and soothing. "What are you playing?"

"Blocks!" the four year old chirped.

"That's nice," Dr. Kerns said, "but don't you think you'd be happier playing with the spy toys?" While speaking, Dr. Kerns slid over a small, clear plastic tub that was filled with toy spy gadgets like the ones that were often seen in movies.

"No," Alex replied. "I like _blocks._"

"Well I'm sure you do like blocks," Dr. Kerns told him, "but you'd be much happier playing with the spy toys. Do you know why you'd be happier?"

Young Alex shook his head. The much older Alex watching the screen began to get a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Because," Dr. Kerns said. "The spy toys are practice. Someday, you're going to be a spy. You're going to work for the spy people."

Alex shook his head. "Want to play blocks. No spy."

"Yes spy, Alex. You're going to be a spy. You don't have a choice. It's what you're made to do." Promptly, Dr. Kerns picked the boy up and carried him across the room. The camera angle changed, and in this on, Alex could see the whole room. There was the chairs and table, the toys, and in the opposite corner, a small, square television with a child sized chair in front of it. He watched the doctor carry his toddler self, kicking and screaming, across the room and plop him in the chair. He wrapped leather straps around the boy's chest and turned the TV on. A swirl of lime green, orange, and purple warped and blinked on the screen. Listening closely to the tape, Alex could hear some sort of pulsing sound coming from the television.

The doctor stepped up to the camera, staying off to one side so that the toddler could be seen. "Subject 11, named Alex Rider, shows increasing responsiveness to the tests. We've run the neural-visual stimulation video for him several times, count 11, and he is drawn to into it with increasing speed each time. The increments to which we need to provide the mental stimulation are decreasing, and soon, it is predicted, that we will reasonably be able to continue to Phase Two of Project Unbreakable." The doctor continued to talk about Alex and science, but watching the tape, Alex was having trouble focusing. His eyes kept sweeping back to the pulsing television screen. He felt dazed and a little fuzzy, watching it, like his head was swimming. He felt sleepy and no matter how much he tried to force himself to focus on the doctor's words, the image called him back again and again, dragging his gaze away from the white coated man and back to the miniature television screen.

The Alex on screen was quiet as well. He wasn't struggling anymore. Seeming to make some sort of point, the doctor had walked over and removed the straps. Alex continued to sit there complacently until Dr. Kerns turned the video off. Alex blinked hard, jerked back to what was actually taking place onscreen. Dr. Kerns was kneeling in front of his younger self, taking his hands and pulling him away from the chair. The toddler came quietly, walking obediently alongside the doctor. When the doctor pushed his shoulders down, the boy knelt on the ground willingly. Dr. Kerns circled back to Alex's front. "Now Alex," he said softly. "Which toys do you want to play with?"

The toddler seemed to struggle for a moment, then reached for the spy toys. "I wanna be a spy like a good boy," the toddler said.

"Yes, Alex," Dr. Kerns cooed. "You're a very good boy."

The screen cut to black. Alex thought the tape was done for a moment, but then it blinked back to life again. The toddler was just entering the room. Dr. Kerns smiled at him. "So, Alex," he said. "What are we going to play with today?"

Without hesitation, the young Alex walked directly to the spy toys. "Spy stuff!" He dropped down and began to play with the toys. "I'm gonna be a spy, you know," he told Dr. Kerns.

"Why's that, Alex?" the doctor asked.

"Because that's what good boys do. Good boys spy because they're told to."

"And are you a good boy, Alex?" the doctor pressed.

The child nodded solemnly. "Alex is a good boy," he repeated. "Alex will be a spy because Alex is a good boy."

The doctor turned to the camera screen. "Phase One is complete. We will continue on to Phase Two." Then the screen cut to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Each tape, Alex had quickly come to realize, was a different phase. They hadn't been easy to watch. And how current some had been! The last tape, tape 9, had been when he was thirteen years old. Alex shivered when he thought about it. The things they'd done. The way he'd _responded._ How he'd just _submitted_ to it. And the worst part was, he had _no memory_ of any of it ever taking place. He tried. He thought as hard as he could. He'd given himself a headache trying to remember, but it just wouldn't come.

Furious, Alex had stormed down to MI6. He'd slammed down Ian's copies of the tapes, demanding to know what had taken place, what had happened. Blunt had called Dr. Kerns and Alex had walked straight up and punched the man.

After they'd calmed him down, Kerns had agreed to explain the process. Since he was young, Kerns explained, they'd been subconsciously training him for his job. _Yes_, Kerns said, _they'd "programmed" him, but only at the explicit permission of Ian Rider._

And that was the worst part of it, at least for Alex. Ian had given them permission. He'd let that happen, he'd _encouraged_ that to happen. And all he'd done at home was reinforce it. It was horrible. Alex had demanded the rest of any documentation they had. To his surprise, Blunt handed it over.

There was, indeed, more documentation. Some from before Ian's death, some from after. Alex struggled to recall the times, but he couldn't. He'd watched in fascinated horror as he'd sat there complacently, letting them inject him with bright yellow serums and put headphones on him with subliminal programming messages playing looped. He'd watched the screens with programming on them. He'd been broken down from such a young age that he didn't even fight.

Alex was loathe to admit it, but he'd cried. Watching those videos, huddled on his bed, seventeen year old Alex had hugged his knees to his chest and cried. He'd shaken and sobbed and trembled with fear and let the terror overwhelm him. He'd spent the next two weeks having almost daily panic attacks as he wondered, picking up milk at the store, did he actually like milk, or did MI6 decide he liked milk because it was good for him? Of course, that was absurd, but the thought had struck him, and it had taken three store clerks and two helpful shoppers to hold him down when the panic about it hit.

He'd had fun talking _that_ one off. "No, no, it's really nothing. I have anxiety is all. PTSD. I was in a bad car crash…"

And eventually, it had all lead to _this. _Him leaving his apartment building and heading down to the street to hail a cab. The taxi pulled up and he climbed in, reciting the address he'd memorized. The cab driver had looked at him in the rear mirror. "It's a bit late to be in your uniform, kid. Got a dance or something?"

"Nah, going to visit my aunt," Alex lied. "She wants pictures. It's my last year in school and all. She's got no kids, so it's a bit of a big deal."

They pulled up to the apartment building and Alex paid the driver. He looked at the door nervously and swallowed hard. He could still pull away. He could turn and walk away. He could back out if he wanted to. If it was too much, he could leave.

No. MI6 had proven that two years ago with a bunch of tapes. He started forward, and with a last tremble, opened the door. He wanted to leave, but he couldn't. He didn't have the will power.

He was broken.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd thrown himself into it, after a while. Eventually, he got over what had been done. Moved on, when he realized it was all he _could_ do. He couldn't go back in time and change it, and it would take years of therapy and thousands of dollars to make any semblance of improvement, so…he let it go. He dove in headfirst, taking any job they tossed his way. He was angry, but not at them. At himself, mostly. He'd seen the videos, and it wasn't what they'd done that upset him the most. Sure, it was wrong. Sure, he was mad. But the worst was that he'd _taken it_. He'd allowed it to happen to himself. And that was weakness. The bad kind of weakness. The kind of weakness that caused things like Jack's death and the injuries of countless people he knew. If he hadn't let it happen, those people's lives would never have been ruined.

So he jumped in. Took any and every kind of case. And right now, he was working on getting close to the leader of a large sex industry. The man, Ewan Hendricks, was suspected of being connected to a Snakehead that was rising to power too quickly for MI6's taste. They thought that it was possible it was connected to another case Alex had worked, a year before, about drugs that were being siphoned into English schools with the intention of poisoning the children.

The only problem was, the one way to get close to someone that led a group like that, was to take part in the sex.

Alex popped the two little white pills he'd taken every night for the past two weeks. Normally he'd take one, but he'd faded out of it halfway through intercourse and if he hadn't forced himself to keep lying still, he'd have wrecked his cover and gotten himself killed. Dr. Kerns had told him to up the dosage.

Already, as he descended to the depths of the basement, thudding down the stairs quickly, he could feel the pills begin to take effect. They lit his senses on fire, making everything dance and become dull at once. He felt drunk as he stumbled through the door.

A woman he recognized pulled him aside. She was wearing a maroon bodice of some sort that only covered her breasts and upper arms, leaving her shoulders and stomach bare, along with matching bloomers. The two pieces of cloth were laden with black lace and feathers. She also had a hat to match. "Theo, darling," she purred. "We simply _must_ play together tonight."

He felt his mouth rise up to form a playful smirk. "Of course, Lorena. I'd love to." The words felt wrong leaving his mouth, but he couldn't stop them. It was the pills. They'd lowered his inhibitions to the point that he'd only stop when it was life threatening and raised his hormone levels to the extremes. For the rest of the night, he wouldn't say no, just like a good little plaything.

Alex hated it. It was disgusting and he felt dirty. The good thing was that tonight was the last night. The deal he was investigating was taking place tonight and after that, he could go home. Go back to _his_ life, the one where he didn't have to dress like a school boy and chew gum and wear his hair like a teenager just because someone took pleasure from it.

The room he was to head to was in the back. He stumbled through, greeting "party" guests with half-drunken seeming waves and loud laughter. He tapped on the door and it swung open. He smiled lazily at the man who greeted him.

Ewan Hendricks was a tall, stout man with a shaved head and a handsome face. Tattoos decorated his arms and torso. He was well-built and well endowed.

Alex didn't like men. He had no physical attraction to them whatsoever. Still, drugged as he was, he snuggled up to Hendricks, rubbing his body against the older man's. "I'm here, Principal Hendricks," he panted. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Theodore," Hendricks said firmly. "Sit in the chair." He pointed the corner of the bed.

Alex sat, grinning cockily. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"

"Why indeed you have, Alex. Would you like to tell me what it is that you might have done?"

Alex pretended to think. "I haven't the foggiest, sir."

"Does _infiltrating my security and spying on me_ sound familiar?"

Inside, Alex froze. This wasn't right. This wasn't how this was supposed to go at all. "No, sir. Haven't the foggiest what you're talking about."

"Grab him."

Alex tried to think, to jump into his fight-or-flight mode like he normally would, but the pills were slowing him down. No, something was wrong. They didn't work like that. They only helped him _act_ like this, not _think_ like it. They didn't affect his thought process, only his body. Still, all he could do was sit and stare with a dazed smile as two armed guards gripped his upper arms and hauled him to his feet. Hendricks got eye level with him. "That deal you're investigating? You just became part of it." He smiled. "I bet you're wondering where your pills went." He held up a little container. "Swapped them for some much more _fun_ party drugs. Hope you're enjoying yourself." A fist connected with the side of his head and Alex blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex woke up in total darkness. Tugging his wrists toward himself gently, he figured out that he was strapped to some kind of surgical table. He listened, but there were no sounds other than some sort of mechanic whirring. He figured out what that was when a screen suddenly flickered to life above his head. Hanging directly in his line of vision, the sudden brightness blinded him for a moment, making him snap his eyes shut for a moment. When they'd stopped stinging, he reopened them.

Ewan's face stared down at him. "Welcome back to the real world, Alex Rider. Oh yes, I know who you are. I know all about you. I know _everything."_ He held up Alex's box of Ian's tapes. "Even about these little babies. Let me say, Alex darling, that they are incredibly fascinating. And so I'll give credit where credit is due. I'll have to send MI6 a thank you card for the idea." He smiled. "Enjoy the entertainment, Alex. Because when it's done I will be enjoying _you._" On that clichéd note, Ewan's face disappeared and the screen blacked out for a moment. Then it flickered back on and a familiar pulsing thrum began to leak from it. Neon colors began to spin and tumble together on the screen. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, but inevitably the thrumming pulse and the colors still flickering before his eyelids drew him in, and several minutes later he realized that he wasn't remembering the colors but watching them, and he couldn't for the life of himself remember when his eyes had opened.

The swirling colors were hypnotic; that much he was sure of. They were slightly different from the ones he'd seen before, he realized, but so similar that it didn't seem to make a difference. He tried to escape them by thinking. What were they going to _do_ to him? What could the colors possibly have to do with sex trafficking? Alex tried to look away but at some point during his being distracted by first Ewan and then the colors, several more screens had been lowered, until he was surrounded by a box of them. Everywhere he looked were colors. They were pulling him in, distracting him, making it hard to think. They were evil, they were horrible and dangerous, they were…so…so pretty. Alex felt himself relaxing. A couple of seconds ago he'd been so scared, but why? The colors were so pretty. And the pretty colors couldn't be bad, could they? Nothing so pretty could be bad, and they were very pretty. So…so...so _pretty._ Alex felt his thoughts fizzle out. He tried to pull himself out of it, but the more he struggled, the more the colors soothed him into relaxing. Every time he started to rise back up, he plunged even deeper. _Pretty…_

Alex didn't notice the mingled whispering voices that had become part of the thrumming, pulsing noise, and he was too focused on the swirling colors to recognize the pictures flashing across at millisecond intervals. He did, however, start to feel very warm. Very, very, very warm. He was burning up, in fact. He wished he could take his clothes off. His arms raised up to remove his shirt. _When had his bindings come off?_ Never mind. He was too hot to care. He needed his clothes off, off, off, _off._ He threw off his shirt and waited for the burning to subside, but it only increased. He wriggled out of his trousers as well, pulling his pants down with them. Completely naked now, he relaxed again. _Ah_, that was so much better. His clothes were uncomfortable. They were hot and stuffy. Why had he even been wearing them?

"I hate to wear clothes," he mumbled absently, echoing the whispering voices. "Nobody likes it when a doll like me wears clothes. S'not pretty. I'm pretty…" His voice faded, but the whispers didn't.

_"You like to feel pretty. Pretty boys get fucked. You like to get fucked. You can't get fucked with clothes on. You hate wearing clothes. Nobody likes it when their dolls wear clothes. Dolls that wear clothes aren't pretty. You like to feel pretty. Pretty boys get fucked. You like to get fucked…"_

"I like getting fucked," Alex mumbled. "Getting fucked feels good."

The swirling colors continued, the voices kept on whispering. In an observation room above, Ewan Hendricks nodded his approval. "It seems to be going rather well down there," he observed.

The scientist next to him nodded. "Yes sir. I think a few more sessions with the programming will be enough. Then he'll have no choice but to obey you."

Ewan smiled. "Good. Something that pretty should fetch a good price, eh?"

"Of course, sir. At least, I believe so. You'd have to check with the statistics department to be certain."

Ewan chuckled. Maxin was incredibly awkward, but he was smart and smart employees were what Ewan needed. "Excellent."

When Wolf's phone rang, it was three o'clock in the morning. "Yeah?" he slurred into the phone upon answering it.

"Wolf? It's Fox."

"What's wrong?"

"We have a mission, and they say that it's urgent. Can you be at MI6 headquarters in an hour?"

Wolf nodded before realizing that Fox couldn't see it. "Yeah. I'll be there." He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up, stumbling to his closet to find his uniform.

"Great, thanks. See you soon."

"Yeah." Wolf hung up the phone and stumbled into a pair of pants and his trousers. Tugging his shirt on, he pulled the covers over his pillow to make the bed look neat and dragged himself off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. MI6, he figured, better have a good reason for dragging him out of bed this early. But knowing MI6, it was a fifty/fifty shot that they didn't.


End file.
